


don't drink the ryncol

by mahariels



Series: tamar shepard [5]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, Earthborn (Mass Effect), F/M, Krogans, Sole Survivor (Mass Effect), Vanguard (Mass Effect), the one where shepard does shots of ryncol and it ends badly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 10:57:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6800875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mahariels/pseuds/mahariels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Not advisable,” Mordin says, “ryncol and non-krogan, risky. Adverse reaction likely. Almost definite.”</p><p>“I have to,” Shepard replies, with that particular set to her jaw that means even if Garrus argues she’s not going to listen to him. “I’m Grunt’s battlemaster and it’s his first goddamn day as an adult krogan. I can’t make him look weak in front of his fucking clanmates.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't drink the ryncol

Her eyes are intent on their path as the Kodiak descends through Tuchanka’s atmosphere, the clouds flickering with lightning storms. 

One of the most frustrating things about Shepard, the resurrected Shepard, the Shepard he’s been carefully evaluating since she picked him back up on Omega, is that she makes everything complicated. He’d had very clear ideas about what he wanted to do to Sidonis, and he’d thought she’d agree given the way they’d been in accord about Saren. But she’d stood in the line of his sight, blocking his shot with her head, and he hadn’t been able to do it. Hadn’t been able to kill _her_ just for revenge. And he’s been mulling over the—ah—other conversation they’d had on the _Normandy_ since it happened, half expecting it’s some kind of weird Shepard whim she’ll forget about shortly. But that’s not entirely true. Shepard isn’t a woman of whims and he knows it, especially now. 

Thinking of it as a mistake or a joke is easier than actually considering that she’s serious and what that’ll mean. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it, in the abstract, about the two of them together, in a safe and easy _there’s no way in hell it’d actually happen so thinking about it’s harmless_ kind of way. Now that she’s actually put the cards on the table it’s another story all together. She had to go and complicate it.

Not that he’d say anything. Or could say anything, given the circumstances. He’s currently bumping knees with Grunt and Zaaed and Solus in the seating area of the Kodiak, and considering Grunt’s little problem recently, he’s not about to start vomiting words about his spirits-damned feelings to _anyone_. His usual avenue of ignoring that kind of thing—namely, calibrations—isn’t even available.

So he sits down and shuts up, and lets Shepard drive.

He’ll give her one thing, the flying’s a definite improvement on the constant collision course she’d set in the Mako. Maybe he’ll have to thank Cerberus for that. Somewhere Shepard can’t hear him.

***

Tuchanka is about what he expected, namely, a blasted hellhole of yellow skies and equally yellow rocks. The air, even underground, smells arid and sour, centuries of nuclear war and death and blasted earth condensed down into one small area. Look at him. Practically turning into a poet. He’s going to blame Shepard for that one. Shepard, who’s currently striding at the head of their little landing party, making her way right into the heart of the Urdnot clan after having brushed off the overcaptain blocking their way like a particularly annoying fly.

“Big guns for little prey,” Zaeed mutters out of the corner of his mouth.

“Probably a reason for it,” Garrus says. The two of them scope out the defenses, which admittedly, seem like overkill. Those’re the kind of guns you want for an approaching Colossus, not the scurrying pyjacks that remind him again of the days of the geth invasion, clearing out planet by planet at Shepard’s side. “Precision, maybe.” 

Zaeed snorts. “Waste of heavy ammo.” 

That doesn't stop Shepard, though. She immediately slots herself into the thick of krogan society: chatting with the researchers and merchants, bombing pyjacks, chatting with the merchant about the varren and the fact that his previous owner had been exiled, and he was alone, and now--

“She's feeding the varren,” Zaeed says, in a resigned tone, entirely without inflection. Given the fact that she gathered up most of them the same way they're all used, to some extent, to Shepard and her penchant for picking up strays. Particularly bloodthirsty strays. 

But there's something vaguely ridiculous--or _cute,_ to Garrus, though he'd never say that because he likes his plates where they are--about watching the captain of the Normandy scratching a huge varren, a beast pockmarked with scars from pit fighting and smiling a toothy smile, behind the ears while she mutters gruffly, "Who's a good boy, then? _You're_ a very good boy, yes you are."

"Varren on Normandy not wise idea," Mordin says, "need to hunt, need space to run. Cramped quarters means aggression."

"He wouldn't do that, would you, Urz?" Shepard says, directly to the varren, who grins and wriggles happily. He flops over on his belly and lets her scratch him there. Garrus has known Shepard long enough to know a lost cause when he sees one. "I'm not _leaving_  him here."

They've been on Tuchanka exactly an hour and Shepard's already adopted a varren. If his natural pessimism hadn't already gotten the better of him, Garrus would be looking forward to seeing the rest of this disaster. 

***

Shepard and Wrex embrace with the force of an avalanche, and if he didn't know better, he'd think those might be tears in her eyes as she pulls away. Her voice is hoarse when she says, "It's good to see you, Wrex."

He doesn't know if he'd go quite that far given the tense standoff on Virmire, but he won't argue with her because there's a _life_  in Shepard he hasn't seen since before he left her after the Citadel attack. She'd been a little more like herself after he'd gone with her to get that _10_  inked back on her chest, but even then there'd been a cloud over her that hadn't lifted, no matter what they'd done.

As she embraces Wrex again, he's starting to think that even if Tuchanka ends up the way he thinks it's going to end up, it may have been worth it.

***

Negotiations with the shaman are another matter all together. Garrus keeps his damn mouth shut, because he sure as hell isn’t getting involved in an inter-krogan dispute, not when he’s probably the only turian on a place where turians aren’t exactly honored guests. So he hangs back and lets Shepard take the lead, which she does with the same ease as always.

“Grunt will strengthen Clan Urdnot,” Shepard’s saying solemnly. She’s drawn herself up to her full height (which is nothing to laugh at, for a human female) and is using what Garrus likes to think of as her Commander voice. Ringing. Dramatic. Not without some irony to it, though you’d only know it if you know _her_. “Name our target and it will _die_.”

“Spoken well,” the shaman says approvingly. “Most aliens—and some krogan—do not understand our ways. I believe this human does.”

 “Aliens don’t know strength!” Uvenk growls. “My followers are true krogan! Everything about Grunt is a _lie_!” 

Over the last few years, Garrus has spent a lot of time with both Shepard and Wrex, so he knows what’s coming next, even before she lunges forward without another word and slams her forehead into Uvenk’s with a loud _thump_ and a snarl on her lips. She pulls back and fixes the clan leader with her trademark Shepard scowl, a look that says, _try me again and I’ll tear you apart_. If he’s being honest with himself, it’s one of Garrus’ favorite looks on her. Either way he’s got one hand on his rifle, just in case Uvenk tries anything. Lesser men’ve taken her challenges as invitations.

“You… you _dare_ ,” Uvenk growls, but he doesn’t move to attack her and confirms Garrus’ opinion of him.

The shaman is laughing. “I _like_ this human! She understands!”

Garrus waits expectantly, but all Uvenk says is, “I withdraw my denial. This will be decided elsewhere.” 

He’s got a bad feeling about that, given what he knows about krogans, but that’s nothing new. The number of people who want to kill them just seems to grow with each planet they visit, but at the very least it seems like Shepard’s won over the shaman. It seems somehow appropriate that out of every mission they’ve been on together, she seems most at ease with the krogan.

***

Shepard's laughing. The last of the klixen explodes in a burst of flame, showering them with little burning bits of flesh, and Shepard is laughing with a full-bodied, wild laugh like she hasn't had so much fun in years. Considering the way the last few years have gone for both of them, it might be true.

“Easy, Shepard,” Garrus says. “We're still waiting on that third wave.” 

“Bring it on,” Shepard says, and turns her head to grin at him, wide enough that he can see her chipped front tooth. Her face is stained with varren blood and for a human, she's damned striking. “We've got--”

A familiar noise shuts both of them up. The burst of sandy ground and a howl like a metal beam twisting in a storm. Shepard's face goes white under the blood, and her mouth sets in a thin line. Nothing like Edolus. They spent the better part of a year systematically wiping out every thresher maw they could find in the Terminus Systems, and he's helped take down at least ten of them, but always in the Mako first.

"Grunt," Shepard says, "this is a thresher maw, and they're _nasty little fuckers_ , and we're gonna fucking _murder it_. Got that?"

"I like the way you think, Shepard," Grunt says, and both his shining eyes and his shotgun turn towards the maw.

Garrus wonders, briefly, how he got himself into this mess. But even if he could get himself out of it, he wouldn't.

***

The maw is as dead as Shepard can make it. 

And he has never seen quite so enjoyable a sight as Tamar Shepard, Council Spectre and former Commander of the Systems Alliance Marines, repeatedly charging a krogan, punching him in the face as soon as she gets up close, and spitting on him.

In the end, although she's gotten a shot in here or there, Shepard has essentially punched Uvenk to death. 

The krogan _love her_.

She seems oblivious to it all, choosing instead to spend the ride back to the Urdnot complex discussing in the intricacies of his job with the shaman. Garrus can see the appeal for her: despite the almost perverse optimism in her actions, Shepard's like him. Deeply pessimistic, totally accepting of the state of the world. She's nodding along with the shaman's words, a thoughtful frown furrowing her face, and Garrus realizes he's in trouble.

***

Of course, Shepard insists on taking care of Mordin's business, first, before they can celebrate. It's Grunt's first mission as a full Clan member, and they've got work to do.

Garrus stays behind, scratches Urz behind his ears, and tries not to worry too much.

***

By the time they're back, the celebratory preparations for Grunt's entry into adulthood are already underway, and Shepard is _thrilled_.

“Not advisable,” Mordin says, “ryncol and non-krogan, risky. Adverse reaction likely. Almost definite.”

“I have to,” Shepard replies, with that particular set to her jaw that means even if Garrus argues she’s not going to listen to him. “I’m Grunt’s battlemaster and it’s his first goddamn day as an adult krogan. I can’t make him look _weak_ in front of his fucking clanmates.”

“Shepard,” Garrus says, resisting the urge to add _sweetie_ because she’s not in the kind of mood to appreciate that right now (or ever), “you just helped him take out a thresher maw on foot, I don’t think refusing a drink is going to change their opinion of him one way or another.”

“I’m drinking the ryncol.” Shepard narrows his eyes at him, and he feels—

“Your funeral,” Mordin says, about as cheerful as he ever sounds.

***

Zaeed and Mordin are drinking—they've all earned it today—but more species—appropriate beverages. And Grunt and Shepard are drinking ryncol, Shepard two shots into it. She'd downed them, shuddered, and said, " _Jesus Christ_." Garrus doesn't drink anything, because he's got a feeling that at least one of them being sober will be a better choice in the end, and if it's gonna be him, it's gonna be him. 

He's never actually seen Shepard drunk before, although he doesn't know if Shepard drinking ryncol is the same thing as Shepard drunk. If it is, he's not sure whether he never wants to see it again, or whether he wants to see it _all of the spirits-damned time_ , because it's... Well. It might be a party in Grunt's honor, but Shepard's stealing the show. It's Shepard standing on a table, demonstrating dramatically exactly how she took out Gatatog Uvenk. First with hand gestures. Increasingly emphatic hand gestures. And then—

"Oh, fucking hell, she's going to—" Zaeed starts, but any protest is cut off by the explosive sound of Shepard _charging_. Urz lopes in her wake, barking excitedly.

He'd try to stop her, but trying to pull a Vanguard out of a charge in an enclosed area is asking for trouble. Instead, he exchanges a loaded _look_  with Zaeed, and the look the mercenary gives him in return says, _she's my commander but she's_ your _problem._ Of course, Wrex seems delighted by it, and bangs his fist on the table, laughing.

On the other side of the room Shepard whirls, extends her hands, and the blue glow of her biotics carries her back across the long table, krogan scattering out of her way. Watching her do it, without any of the distractions of battle, is--well, she's impressive. He has the chance to see first hand what she'd look like at the wrong end of a gun, except she's beaming and saying in a too-loud voice, “And I charged him, and I punched him in the fucking _face,_  and I shot him with my shotgun, and I told him he didn’t have the plates—”

Garrus interrupts, pretty smoothly, he thinks. “Shepard. You don’t have plates either.”

“It’s metaphorical, okay? I got so many metaphorical fucking plates I’m a fucking _china cabinet_.”

“…Shepard, give me that bottle.”

“I’m not done yet. You know, Garrus, _you_  have plates.” Her fingers trace the edge of one of them, tickling where it joins to the skin of his neck, and he shudders, pushing her hands away as quickly as he can.

"Shepard, that's _not—_ not—for public—"

"Why not? Are you _ticklish—_ "

"It's just—for private, between two—"

"China cabinets?" Grunt asks, with a frown.

"—consenting adults—"

"Human affectation," Mordin explains, "show of wealth—"

"—you should have _seen his face_ ," Shepard is saying, a beatific grin on hers as he wrestles the ryncol out of her hand before she can drink more of it. In all of the expressions he's carefully cataloged, he's never seen that one before. It's something else, all right.

Thank the spirits he's sober, that's all he can say.

***

A little later on, Shepard has headbutted exactly three krogan, and hugged Wrex, Grunt, Zaeed, Mordin, and Garrus in that order.

"Grunt's all grown up," she tells him, sadly.

"It's a good thing," Garrus reminds her, "that's why we're celebrating. That's why you drank the ryncol."

Shepard frowns at him. "Yes, but he's _all grown up_ , and soon he's going to leave us to do adult krogan things, and I've raised him from _birth_..."

"That's been about four months, just so you can put that in perspective."

"My son," Shepard says sadly, sways on her feet, and says, "Fuck, I think I'm going to be sick."

She's not sick, but she does drop like a sack of stones. Garrus moves quickly enough that he catches her before he hits the ground. Scoops her up in his arms, not without a little readjustment. She's almost as tall as he is and solid, and she's still wearing her armor. 

"I'm, ah, gonna take her back to the Normandy," he tells Zaeed. "You can meet us there when  you're ready."

Zaeed raises his glass. "A toast to the Commander and her stomach."

"Will regret this in the morning," Mordin says, with satisfaction. 

"I don't doubt it, Doc." And Garrus walks Shepard back to the ship, with Urz following closely at their heels.

***

Doc Chakwas checks her out, finds nothing wrong with her innards, and recommends putting her to bed and making sure she drinks fluids in the morning. She helps him take off Shepard's armor, leaving only her filthy under clothing, a thin t-shirt and pants that fit snug under the armor. It's all stained with sweat and blood and spirits know what else. She _stinks._ She'll probably regret that in the morning, too.

"It's going to be one hell of a hangover," Chakwas says sleepily, "probably even worse than the one I had after we split that Serrice Ice Brandy."

"You and--nevermind, I don't know if I want to know."

Chakwas smiles at him. "She's not an unpleasant drunk, you know. A good storyteller and a better listener."

Garrus still has the image of Tamar Shepard charging across the meeting hall of Clan Urdnot, and says, "Maybe when she's not drinking ryncol." 

But the doctor only laughs, and looks up at him from her consulting chair. "I entrust her to your care, Mr. Vakarian." And he might be imagining it--he's never entirely sure with humans, whether their eye movements are voluntary or involuntary—but the doctor _winks_  at him.

***

Urz has already made himself at home in Shepard's cabin, curled up at the foot of her bed and snoring. 

Garrus, his arms aching, sets her down as gently as he can on the bed, which is difficult, considering Shepard's entirely a deadweight. She stirs, briefly, and opens her eyes. They narrow, and for a second he thinks she's going to try to fight him before something registers as to where she is and who's with her.

"Did you carry me all the way back here?" Shepard slurs.

"Yes."

"I made a fucking idiot of myself, didn't I."

"I don't know," Garrus says, "I think the krogan liked it. You fit right in. And you were having a blast. Here. Drink this."

She accepts the glass of water and drinks some of it, before trying to put it down on her bedside table, missing, and spilling it all over the floor. Shepard groans, and covers her eyes with one hand. "I liked Tuchanka," she admits. "The krogan... everything they do makes _sense_. It's easy... oh, Urz, you're here, good... your pit-fighting days are over, m'friend..."

"Sleep it off, Shepard," he says, patting her hand. "I don't need the doctor to tell me you're gonna have a hell of a time of it in the morning."

"It was worth it," Shepard sighs, stretching, and then wincing in pain. "And Garrus?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't think I've forgotten about our conversation," she says, opening one bloodshot eye and glaring at him. Even though she's filthy, and he probably shouldn't be looking at her like this at _all_ right now, he can clearly see the outline of her body beneath the thin, sweaty clothes, the muscular lines of her stomach and her slim hips. A few months ago—hell, even a few weeks ago—that might not have held the weight that it does now. "I'm holding you to it."

He can feel his face flushing, hot under the plates. His mandibles twitch. "Let's, uh, talk about that when you're not..."

"Drunk as fuck?" Shepard supplies helpfully.

He laughs. "When you're not drunk as fuck. Good night, Shepard."

"'Night, Garrus. And... thank you. And if you tell anyone about this, I'm gonna have to kill you."

He doesn't have an answer for that, and beats a hasty retreat back to the main battery, feeling a bit like he's the one who took four shots of ryncol instead.

Shepard has that effect on him.


End file.
